


After The Hunt

by lucian



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Bondage, Caning, Dominance, Dubious Consent, Hand Jobs, M/M, Masochism, Sadism, Sibling Incest, Submission
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-22
Updated: 2013-02-22
Packaged: 2017-12-03 06:11:46
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,967
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/695096
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lucian/pseuds/lucian
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After the hunt, Dean's on edge. Not like that's a spectacular change or anything, but dammit - he can never just be happy that they ganked the monster.</p>
            </blockquote>





	After The Hunt

After the hunt, Dean's on edge. Not like that's a spectacular change or anything, but dammit - he can never just be happy that they ganked the monster. He's always pissed off because it surprised them somehow or that the body was missing a part or that Sam thought Dean's safety was more important than killing the thing faster.

It's that _last_ one this time.

Dean's knuckles are white on the steering wheel and Sam rolls his eyes. He can recite the coming argument verbatim.

"Dammit, Sammy - I told you to shoot!"

"You were in the way."

"You weren't gonna hit me!"

"Nobody's a perfect shot, Dean."

"It almost killed me! _Then_ where would you be?"

"You didn't die."

"It was damned close! And what about next time? You gonna wait 'til I'm dead so you have a clear shot?"

"And here we go with _reductio ad absurdum_ ," Sam murmurs and drops his head lightly against the window.

"I'm not possessed!" Dean snaps, and Sam rolls his eyes again.

Sam knows that Dean's not gonna let it go for a couple of days, and he's sick of it happening after every single hunt. Dean just can't wrap his head around the idea that Sam's ideas work out just as well as his do, and that trying to kill things that have supernatural powers is not as cut-and-dry as a military attack.

Sam's getting more pissed off about it by the minute because Dean's a walled-off, shattered soldier and he's never going to stop and figure out all of his goddamned self-destructive issues no matter how often Sam gently tries to coax him, and he's going to crash and burn with Sam standing there helpless and -

And then Sam has an idea. A dangerous idea, but if Sam knows Dean as well as he thinks he does, he'll be forgiven.

Probably.

Dean growls at him all the way back to the motel, and Sam gives the desired responses; calms him down just enough so that Dean isn't quite so spring-loaded when the door closes. It's a still fairly hellish struggle, but Sam has height and weight and muscle in his favor, and eventually Dean's tied spread-eagle on the bed.

"Let me the fuck _up_ ,  Sam!"

"No," Sam says quietly as he settles languidly into a chair.  "And you can yell all you want, but it's an empty motel on the edge of town, and the manager's just going to think we're having loud, kinky sex. Especially if I turn on the porn channel before I open the door."

"Sam! If you don't take these goddamned ropes off, I'm gonna -"

"What, Dean? Piss yourself?"

That gets Dean's attention. 

"Because you and I both know that's all you can do. But if you just relax, it won't come to that. And don't think I won't make you do it to get my point across."

That's when Dean starts in on the exorcism ritual, which looks a little funny when _he's_ the one tied to the bed.

At the end nothing happens, and Sam smiles. He pulls his shirt down and his tattoo is still intact. "Not a demon. But if it makes you feel better -" and he digs into Dean's duffle bag. Salt and holy water do nothing, and Sam shows Dean that the knife is made of silver before cutting into his forearm.

Nothing happens. The muscles in Dean's jaw twitch.

"I'm Sam. Your brother Sam. The same Sam who is sick and tired of being the whipping boy for your neurotic phobias."

"Let me up!"

"See, there you go again. What makes you think you're remotely in control?"

"When I get out of here, I'm gonna beat your ass so badly -"

"Why would I untie you knowing that?" Sam crosses his ankles and leans an elbow on the table. He's surprisingly calm, considering what he's about to do.

"Okay! I get the point! I'll stop giving you shit on the hunts!"

"And afterward."

"And afterward!"

"And any time at all, unless it's brotherly banter. "

"Fine! Now untie me!"

"You've offered me everything you think I want just to regain control, and yet you still don't have it. Why is that?"

"Goddamn you, Sam!"

"Vessel of Lucifer.  Already happened."

"Let me go!"

"No."

"I gave you what you want!"

"No, you gave me what you _think_ I want. You've offered to cure the symptoms, but not the disease."

"For fuck's sake, Sam - what the fuck do you _want?_ "

"Now we're getting somewhere," Sam says as he leans toward the bed. "What I want, Dean, is for you to realize that it's okay for you _not_ to be in control. In fact, I want you to realize that you are _never_ in control: well-trained and well-prepared, yes, but never in control. And that's okay, because you've always survived and you always will. But it's not because you're in control."

"But I -"

"No, Dean," Sam interrupts. "But nothing. Say it: 'I'm not in control'."

Dean gives him a death glare.

"Say it."

"Fine! I'm not in control," Dean repeats petulantly.

"You aren't gonna make this easy on yourself, are you? Why the hell would I think you would?" Sam goes to the cooler and twists the caps off of two beers. "You thirsty?"

"I could use a beer," Dean growls as he tugs on his restraints. 

"I asked if you were thirsty. You can have water; these are for me."

"What the fuck, Sam!"

"You don't get beer because you're not in control. Would you like some water?"

Dean grits his teeth. "Fine."

Sam fills a glass and drops a straw in it. "Be careful," he says as Dean starts to suck it down. "If you haven't figured this all out by the time you have to piss, you're gonna be sleeping in it."

Dean rolls his eyes and finishes the glass.

"You just got me water 'cause I wanted it. Doesn't that make me in control?"

Sam smiles. "I gave you a choice. You could have said yes or no, but I was in control of whether to give it to you."

Dean yanks at the ropes again.

"Here's what's going to happen," Sam says, because this could go on all night and Dean _will_ piss himself just to be stubborn. He goes over to the drapes and detaches the pull rod. "Every time you struggle, I'm going to hit you. Not anywhere overly sensitive, but it will hurt like a bitch and it will welt. It might even bruise."

Dean raises an eyebrow defiantly and yanks. The strike lands across his jean-clad thighs. Dean chokes back a cry. Sam looks at him calmly. Dean kicks out because he's Dean, and Sam strikes again, slightly lower. Dean grits his teeth and doesn't make a sound.

Then Sam smiles and hits him three times in fast succession. Dean howls.

"What the fuck, Sam! You said you'd only hit me if I struggled!"

"No, I said, 'Every time you struggle, I'm going to hit you'. I didn't say I _wouldn't_ hit you if you _didn't_ struggle."

"That's not fair!" Dean snaps.

"And how is it fair to manipulate me into hitting you so you feel like you're in control? You are _not_ in _control_ , Dean."

"Fuck you!"

"Maybe I will. But there won't be anything you can do to stop me, will there?"

Dean's eyes go slightly wide, then narrow in anger. Before he opens his mouth, Sam says, "Say it."

"Say what?"

A line of fire crosses his thighs, Dean chokes back a cry, and Sam repeats himself.

"Say it."  
Dean grunts when the strike lands.

"Say it."  
Dean glares and Sam raises an eyebrow. 

"I can do this longer than you can, Dean. Say it."

Dean doesn't speak. Sam hauls back and lays down a line of white-hot fire.

_"I'm not in control!"_

Sam smiles softly and hits him again.

"Jesus fucking Christ! I _said_ it, Sam!"

"Yes, you did," Sam agrees, stroking softly up Dean's burning thighs. "And you're going to say it every time I hit you. Do you understand?"

"Dammit, Sam, don't -"

Strike.

"Fucking _stop!_ "

"Say it."

"Fuck! I'm not in control!"

Strike.

"I'm not in control!"

Strike.

"I'm not in control! Dammit, Sam, I _understand_ -"

"No, you don't. You just want the pain to stop." And it keeps coming, the strikes harder and faster, and Dean is grunting out his chant as the blows fall mercilessly.

It's when the first strike lands on the tender flesh of his belly that Dean howls.

" _Please stop!_ Please, Sam - fuck, it hurts! Please stop!"

"You're still trying to control me - me and Fate and Death; Heaven, Hell, and every monster we've ever come across," Sam says as he shoves Dean's t-shirt up under his armpits. "If you need to say something, tell me you're not in control."

"I'm not! I'm not in control! Please, I'm not-" but the strikes keep falling, burning lines of fire across his abdomen. 

When Dean's belly is striped with angry red welts, Sam asks simply, "Why can't you let go?"

 _"Because you'll die!"_ Dean yells. "Because you'll take a bullet and a monster and fucking _Hell_ for me and I can't do it any more! You're my whole world, Sammy, and I can't keep losing you! I can't _do_ this any more!"

Dean's eyes are wet and his voice is broken. Sam lets him compose himself for a minute.

"Dean, I'm going to die. By monster or bullet or - God forbid - old age, but I am going to die. And every time I jump in harm's way, it's because I can't handle the thought of losing _you_ , either.  
"So you and I will keep stealing little pieces of time away from Death until the day he stops indulging us. But until then, your terror is destroying what life we have left, and I'm not going to tolerate it any more."

When Sam lays a line across his nipples, Dean's mouth opens but no sound comes out. His eyes are wet and wide. Sam drops the next strike in exactly the same place, and Dean lets out a shuddering breath. On the fifth strike, Dean's body goes limp and his eyes flutter closed.

Sam pauses to run his fingers down the black-edged welts that crisscross Dean's flesh, and Dean trembles beneath him. He places his palms over Dean's thighs - burning hot even through the denim - and that's when he sees it: Dean's so hard he's soaked through his jeans. When Sam trails a fingertip along the zipper, Dean groans softly.

"Dean, do you want this?"

"'M not in control," he rasps out, voice ruined.

"That's true," Sam answers softly, "but I'm asking you a question. Do you _want_ it?"

Dean doesn't respond for a long moment, and Sam's reaching to untie him when Dean whispers, "Don't wanna be in control all the time, Sammy."

It's not about sex; it's about utter and complete psychological release. Sam unfastens Dean's belt and pulls his straining cock out. Dean's breathing gets faster but he doesn't tense up or try to fuck Sam's fist. It's only a few strokes before Dean whispers, "Say it, Sammy. Please."

Sam's honestly startled. He'd thought Dean's erection had simply been from the rush of pain-induced endorphins and the visceral relief of letting his fear-built wall fall down, not arousal from losing control. Sam's entirely amazed that Dean was even capable of going all the way through acceptance to desire.

"You are _not_ in control," he growls, and Dean sighs as he spills in Sam's hand.

Sam cleans him up and unties him; pulls off his boots and pulls the comforter up over him. He lays down beside Dean, on top of the covers, hoping his weight and closeness are reassuring.

Tomorrow will be interesting.


End file.
